* My travels on the Continent * My appetite * My would-be suitor

I shall begin my tale by introducing myself: I am Lady Maureen Fairweather, daughter of Charles Fairweather, seventeenth Marquis of Shepcester, granddaughter of Harold, thirty-sixth Duke of Angleshire. While the title may sound impressive, the glory of the name is much in the past. Indeed, our family, whose power began in the misty days before Egbert defeated the great Anglo-Saxon kings and created England, had seen its fortunes decline over the years to not much more than a name, vast lands which produced but meagre rents and a seat in the House of Lords. My grandfather, seeking a quick restoration of our reduced fortunes, had squandered much of our remaining wealth in financing the Confederate Army in the American War Between the States; in that side's subsequent defeat, he was left with a vault full of worthless notes and bonds. My father, fortunately, had already completed his education as well as several years of wandering the Continent and adventuring in the wilds of America, and so was not too harshly affected by the sudden difficulties. Indeed, his time on his own had awakened in him a satisfaction in self-reliance and austerity in addition to a new-found confidence in his own thoughts and ideas, many of which were contrary to the spirit of the times.

He considered himself a Freethinker, writing dissertations for small periodicals on secularism, internationalism and pacifism, which served to infuriate his convention-bound father while building for himself a reputation as a kindred spirit amongst the Bohemian poets, artists and painters in the meaner parts of London. While dwelling in one of those shabby garrets, having refused his annuity, my father met my mother, a flame-haired Irish woman, possessed of a wild spirit and a singular genius with paints and pigments. They were wed in secret and lived on the meagre income from her portraiture and his scrivening, feeling themselves to be freed by their poverty from all earthly concerns and able to live in the spirit of pure Art and Thought.

How rude it must have been for them, when their isolation from the world was broken by the news that my mother was with child, and how tragic it was for my father when, on Christmas Day, his irrepressible wife was lost in the torments of childbirth. Yet, holding my just-quickened body against his sorrow-filled chest, he said he felt my mother's spirit racing through me, like a river after a storm. He vowed at that moment that he would raise me to be the embodiment of all their shared beliefs: free from convention, free from prejudice and superstition and fear.

We moved back into the family's apartments in London and my father set about investing his small portion in whatever ventures he believed would increase his fortunes. He soon discovered that he had the gift for financial speculation which his ancestors had lacked, and despite society's disapproval of a gentleman with a vocation other than hunting and sport, even his father was forced to give him grudging respect when it became clear that the family's prosperity was growing, reversing the trend of the centuries prior.

My father never permitted his duties and attentions to the markets and other investments to interfere with his plans for his red-headed daughter's education. Every experience was a learning experience for me: a walk in the woods surrounding our ancestral manor house would turn into a recitation of botanical terminology; a carriage-ride in the countryside was an opportunity for a discussion of the science of Geology; a trip to the elegant chambers of Parliament was balanced by a walk through the poverty-stricken slums where I was born.

Above all my possessions, I cherished a locket given to me by my father. It had, he told me, belonged to my mother, and had been created for her by a goldsmith of her acquaintance in exchange for a painting. The locket was unusual in its shape, seemingly possessed of no symmetry, with a hinge which protruded both above and below the body of the locket. It was only upon opening its clasp and spreading its halves apart that one would realise the pendant was in the shape of a splendid butterfly. Inside, the locket contained the most precious object, a coloured etching of my mother, in whose face I saw my own.

That etching occupied my dreams for many a night and I would awaken, terrified that it had been lost or stolen. I took to sleeping with the locket under my pillows, and I often imagined that I could hear my mother cooing to me in my slumbers, her sweet voice emanating from her portrait. On those nights, I would dream that I was a tiny child, encountering her in a verdant field, where we would meet and embrace with all the eagerness of family apart for twenty years. She was always resplendently attired in a loose and flowing gown of blue and cream-coloured gossamer, her hair floating on the gently perfumed breezes. Her garment would wrap around me and I would feel myself warmed and comforted in the haven of her bosom. Then, she would suddenly crumble to the ground and I would remain standing over her for a moment, no longer a child, but finding myself grown to her former stature, before I would sink to my knees in sorrow. When I would attempt to take her stricken form into my arms, I would see that she had mysteriously changed into a crowd of blue and cream-coloured butterflies, which would, with my touch, take flight and disappear into the day.

So, my nights were filled with dreams and my days were filled with study. My father, as would be expected, had great disdain for Society's lack of concern when it came to educating its young women, and through his own endeavours, provided for me the best tutors in the fields of Literature and Art and the Natural Sciences. He encouraged my incessant questions, elated when he had no answer for me and thus challenged to provide me with the knowledge I required. He was delighted when, at the age of sixteen, I began asking for canvas and brushes because I felt the spirit of Art within me. My enthusiasm, I believe, was much greater than my talent, but my father encouraged me, nonetheless. There were others, too who respected my talents, and by the time of my twenty-first birthday, my paintings were to be found hanging in several galleries in London. My works in Natural History, meanwhile included my description of a new species of blue, grey and cream butterfly of the genus Nymphalis. This I named N. caitlinus, or Caitlin's Gown, in honour of my mother. I also undertook several studies of the blood of this species which attended our manor in great abundance, and published my articles in several respected scientific journals.

The summer after I turned twenty-one, my father and I travelled through Europe to further my education in Art. My grandfather was pleased with this plan, for he saw in it the possibility that I might meet a rich man of the continent, marry, and produce for him the male heir my father had not. But matchmaking was not the primary focus of our agenda. Instead, my father and I immersed ourselves in the omnipresent history of Western Civilisation, finding enlightenment in every aspect of our travels as we moved from country to country, palace to palace, museum to museum. None of our discoveries, however, were more enjoyable than the exploration of the rich and varied cuisines of the Continent. My father discovered in himself an epicureanism totally at odds with the asceticism of his youth, but was unwilling to even attempt its containment. As a result of this gourmandise, he began developing a considerable paunch which he carried in front of himself as a mark of pride. The larger his stomach grew, the more satisfied he seemed to become, almost as if he had realised that his days of penury and privation were gone forever, and that now he was free to indulge in the world of the Senses, much as he had spent his youth indulging in the world of the Mind.

Of course, as his companion, I was encouraged to indulge, too, in the wonderful dishes served to us both by haute restaurateurs and by peasants in their hovels. I ate with gusto and abandon, assured by my father and by my own observations that food was another form of Knowledge, and driven by my desire to gain Wisdom. As the summer and our travels drew down, our meals continued unabated. The sylph-like figure of my adolescence soon became but a memory, and the results of my over-indulgences began to assert themselves. My girlish bust, willowy waist and slim hips burgeoned outward, so that by the time we returned to my grandfather's house that autumn, I had become a buxom woman, possessed of poise, education, experience and confidence.

Unfortunately, my father's egalitarianism towards women's intellects was not shared by most people of our station, and so I was ill-prepared for the role expected of me among the minor nobles and members of polite rural society with whom my grandfather filled our house. If my father was not present, I was excluded from the political, theological or philosophical conversations in which the men participated, and was, instead, relegated to the circles of women, where the topics were clothes, children, and, of course, the unattached men. The silly girls my age considered me lucky because I was the subject of the attentions of the most eligible bachelor in the county.

To any other woman, Sir Henry Johnson, the Baronet of Oakshire, would have seemed the ideal candidate for a successful marriage. His family had grown rich in banking and that afforded him the opportunity to attend University, where he had acquired the trappings of Knowledge but no love for it's subtleties. Although he was lacking in height, his arms were strong, his shoulders broad, his voice rich and powerful, making him not an altogether unattractive man. Although his rank was somewhat beneath mine, were I reared in a more conventional manner, his fortune should have eased any qualms about his suitability as my husband. As I have mentioned, however, my childhood and my education were not of the norm, and consequently, I found a great deal lacking in this handsome and rich man.

Although my father had no use for the proprieties of formal courtship, my grandfather, in his single-minded desire to have my issue preserve the family name, encouraged Henry in his suit, often inviting him to our home on some nebulous pretext, then leaving me to entertain our guest. When I went out riding on Polynesia, my Arabian stallion, in the wooded western reaches of our lands, Henry always seemed to happen upon us, joining me for a quiet ride. He was very polite to me on those private occasions, often asking my opinion on the political affairs of the day, or mentioning some new discovery in scientific circles. Before my travels in Europe, he had often complimented me on my beauty, but upon my return, he made obvious his displeasure with my voracious appetite, and was, I knew, somewhat less-than-pleased with my newly-amplified form.

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